Disclaimer: I have not now, nor ever will own RENT or its characters. If I did, Mark would be mine, and there would be a lot of swining parties at my house.

Author's Note: I was bit by the inspiration bug during class today when my professor read a fake article about young heroin addicts (the woman who did it won a Pulitzer, then had to give it back when her story turned out phony). Immediately my mind jumped to Roger and RENT. Go figure. This is a take on what prompted Roger's withdrawal and getting clean.

He didn't look left or right while he walked down the street. The air was humid, and Alphabet City seemed to be melting under the intense summer heat. And yet he walked on, unknowing of it all.

He didn't have to, after all; he knew exactly where he was going, how many steps it took to get there, and how many minutes even. The seconds ticked by slowly, each feeling like an eternity as he tread slowly towards his destination.

Roger Davis snorted at this. He never thought about how long the trip ever took before. Maybe because now he viewed time in a whole different light. And it was all thanks to the death and destruction of his life.

April…his April…was dead. Killed herself in the bath tub of the loft they shared with his best friends Mark, Maureen, Benny and Collins. He could still see the dried blood on her slit wrists, and the wretched note scrawled on a thin scrap of paper sitting atop her stomach. "We've got AIDS"…it sickened him, he noted ironically. Desperately he wished that he could've had the chance to talk to her about what they both had. AIDS…still such a taboo illness in American society. They were isolated, in a way, even more so than because of their bohemian lifestyles. Isolated and idolized, in Roger's case; being an up and coming rock star had it perks. But he'd never get to talk to her, to tell her that he loved her, that they'd find a way to live.

No, she decided she didn't want to go on dying a slow, painful death. The quicker, the better, she must have figured.

'Or maybe she didn't want to go on because of your mutual addictions? It is because of the dirty needles you passed around, you know, that you got AIDS in the first place,' his brain chided, and he ground his teeth at the thought. 'Yeah, the honesty sucks, doesn't it? Well, get used to it. You've been hitting the needle harder since she died, and I'm not going to take it anymore. You shouldn't continue, you know you shouldn't.'

"But I can't stop," he muttered to himself, rubbing the crook of his arm absentmindedly. And really, he couldn't. Not even though his beloved April slashed into her veins to escape, not even though he'd been injecting heavier and heavier doses of the smack like he had a suicide wish of his own. It'd been weeks since she'd been placed in the ground, since Mark came to him begging Roger to give up the heroin.

---

That day had begun like every day before it: Roger woke up at noon, rolled out of bed and immediately was aching for his fix. Mark had intercepted him though, right before he could do anything.

"Rog, you need to stop using. It's killing you faster than the AIDS ever could. You need to give it up," he breathed, wringing his hands nervously. Roger laughed in his friend's face, languishing on the couch with a waiting baggy and needle lying on the floor.

"Never, Mark. Never," he sighed, dejected yet unashamed. "It makes me feel…nothing. I love feeling nothing!"

"But…you can't just feel nothing. April died, Benny got married, and Collins is moving away…how can you…" Mark sputtered, before shaking his head and turning to walk away. Before he left the room, he couldn't resist saying more. "Shouldn't her dying make you see how bad this is? Shouldn't you want to give it up?"

It hurt Roger's insides as he responded, "It should, but it doesn't. I like this, Mark. Let me just have this one thing when other things are…taken away. I need to not feel anymore."

The smaller man frowned. "Then you'll really be left with nothing, Roger. Then you'll hate yourself for it."

Roger snapped at that point, jumping up and shoving Mark as hard as he could.

"GOOD! I DON'T WANT ANYTHING ANYMORE, EXCEPT THIS! SO LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!"

---

Mark walked away from that incident, but not without bruises and a damaged friendship left in his wake. Now, as Roger walked towards an alley (twenty-seven feet), he felt badly. He shouldn't have done that to his best friend since kindergarten, but…

"I can't give it up, I can't," he said aloud, drawing stares from a couple people passing him. He ignored them, concentrating on achieving his goal. The heroin was all he needed, all he could want, not even death could separate him from it. The rush he received as it invaded his blood stream, the wonderful sights and colors he experienced while on the high…he just couldn't get enough of it. The only terrible part was the crash, the withdrawal. But there was always a quick fix. And right at that moment, he was on his way to getting that fix.

The darkened alley next to the Catscratch Club was where HE was: The Man. It was where HE could always be found, no matter if there was sleet, rain, or cops patrolling all day. It was like HE was the postal service, except you had to pay the ultimate price for his goods. Good-bye stability, dignity, sanity. Hello, sweet bliss.

Hurriedly Roger began digging through his pockets for the money he pilfered from Mark's wallet. The savings jar was almost empty, he needed more to get what he needed. Not once did he think what he was doing was wrong. Rather, it was a means to an end. An end that could mean forgetting. Still, in his rush to get the bills out, he ended up dropping them on the ground, losing precious time to get to The Man first that day.

Suddenly, a blur bolted past Roger, causing him to let out a high-pitched scream. Withdrawal made him edgy, and sudden movements frightened him. Cursing under his breath, he brushed himself off and stood up again, money in hand. Glaring down the alley, he saw something that utterly shocked him and broke through his haze.

A young boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen years old, was dangling on The Man's arm, looking for a hit. The Man shook him once, twice, three times before just throwing him to the ground.

"You don't have the money? Tough luck, kid. No money, no jam, that's the way it works," snarled the drug dealer, kicking trash into the boy's face to add insult to injury. Undeterred, the kid sprang up, shaking and sobbing.

"I'll do anything, please! I need it, I need it, please!" he whimpered, clutching at The Man's jacket once again. He was kicked- literally kicked- to the side, and told to go fuck off until he had the cash. Blindly the boy stumbled away, collapsing into Roger.

"Help me! I need it, I need it, I want it," he said, tearing at Roger's shirt in a frenzy. With his back to a wall, Roger could only push his arms away and keep his own precious change clutched in his fist. And then the kid tried biting him, scratching him. "Gimme money! I need it, I want it, I'll kill you, give me money!"

In the boy's frightening blue eyes, Roger saw a reflection of himself. The same longing, the same desperation, the same agonizing painful heartbeats pulsing through the veins of thin arms were part of this boy. Except that he was so young…far too young. He had his whole life ahead of him; how shitty did he have it that the poor kid needed heroin to get by?

Swallowing, Roger tried to forget the kid was even there, tried to brush him off, but he couldn't get away so easily. A leg hooked behind his and sent him crashing to the ground. Throwing out his hands to break his fall, the money slipped out and floated down to the dirt. Right away the teenager pounced on it, but the older man wouldn't let him have it that easily. A scuffle ensued, blood was drawn, and it ended with Roger pinning the boy to the ground, a knee crushing against his chest and a palm holding down his head. The Man watched this all, and he was laughing. He was laughing at them, and made no move to stop either.

And then, suddenly, Roger broke again. Staring down at the heartbroken teenager, he realized exactly what he was doing…and it disgusted him.

'I'm fighting a boy…for money…to buy smack,' he thought, clambering away and wiping his tainted blood off his own face. Glaring down the alley, he menacingly strode right up to The Man, who began to back away nervously.

"You sick…twisted…bastard!" Roger wailed, charging at him. The Man swiftly sprinted away, leaving a winded and twitching Roger in his wake. Sniffling, stumbling, and cracking under the weight of his sorrow, he strode back to the boy, who had slipped into unconsciousness moments before. Reaching down, the rocker picked him up, and with a determination he hadn't felt in a long time, he carried the teenager twelve city blocks to the nearest hospital.

When a nurse asked him what had happened, all Roger could say was, "Found him in an alley, didn't have money for a cab, had to carry him."

The boy was taken away, the nurses pulling a coin bag out of the boy's shorts, flipping over the child's school I.D. and reading off the name "Adrian Walters" to another woman scrawling names on a sheet. Rather than sticking around for the police to interrogate him, Roger fled the hospital, running all the way home.

"I can't want it, I can't need it," he hollered to himself all the way home. Fourteen blocks, ten flights of stairs, and one door later, he was back home, the tears running freely down his face, his body exhausted and his hands tugging on Mark's shirt.

Staring up into the astonished man's face, Roger asked him calmly, "Mark, can you please…get me clean? Please…help me…"

xXxXxXx

Two years later, Roger finds himself remembering that day. Not fondly, of course, but with relief. He looks up at the summer sky, clouds lazily rolling by, and the sun about to set. He'd lived another two years, he'd achieved sobriety. There was love, loss, friendship, betrayal and so much else that had happened in the last two years, but perhaps this could count as one of his better experiences. Well, in a sense.

He kneels at the gravestone, slowly tracing out the name "Adrian Walters" carved into the granite. Curiosity had led him here. The name had stuck with him through all his withdrawal to get clean; he needed to know the kid who'd helped him. With Benny's help (and let's face it, his wealth), Roger was able to find out what happened to the young boy he fought in the alley twenty-four months ago. He'd died, unfortunately, from a heroin overdose on New Year's Day, the New Year's Day he'd been able to have with his friends and his now-fiancée Mimi with the breaking-into-the-building party. His heart cracks a little when he reads the date, at how he was too late to find him. Still, he was going to say what he needed to say.

"Adrian…it's me, Roger. You know, the guy you tried to mug for drug money?"

He chuckles, but continues.

"You'll never know it, but you saved me. You showed me that I still had a life, and that I shouldn't throw it away, especially since I…I don't have much time."

He sighs.

"You were too young, you know. Too young for this to have happened. You had your whole life…I'll never know why you did smack, but…at least you'll get to hear that you were able to save a life through your addiction. So, Adrian…thank you. For saving me."

Roger scatters the petals of the daisies Mimi had found for him onto the grave, before turning away and going back to his friends, his fiancée and the life he needed.

Last note: Hope you enjoyed it, please review, and hopefully have a great day. Live life to the fullest!